


A World Full of Obvious Things

by beeeinyourbonnet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Sherlock AU, detective gold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeinyourbonnet/pseuds/beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle French had a steady, normal life as the town librarian, preparing to marry one of the top businessmen in Storybrooke--until a mysterious stranger (that everyone in town but her seems to recognize) offers to take her on the adventure of her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Virgin and Her Lover

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a Sherlock Holmes-based AU that I plan to be more episodic than chapter-oriented. I just wanted to say this up front. :D
> 
> Also, Belle's outfit for this chapter: http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=80708013
> 
> yay!

“I’m looking for a book.”

Belle looked up from her laptop, blinking at the sudden disturbance. No one ever came into the library this early in the morning. In general, most people never came near the library. She had begun to think that the citizens of Storybrooke were allergic.

“That’s why most people come to libraries,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. She almost winced at her own rudeness, but the man seemed unfazed.

“I’m sorry. What can I do for you, sir?” She knew she was blushing, but she tried to look as professional as possible, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her.

He wore a well-tailored pinstripe suit, with a light blue pocket square and navy tie, and his hands rested over the head of an elegant cane. “Aren’t you going to open the web catalogue?” he asked, gesturing to her computer.

She glanced at the word document open on the screen he couldn’t see, and then smiled at him. “It is open. But I probably won’t need it. What are you looking for?”

“No, it’s not. You’re writing something personal.”

Belle stared at him, smile faltering. “Well, I minimized my personal writing. Really, sir, what are you looking for?”

“No, you didn’t. There was no click.”

Belle stood up, annoyed to see that, despite his slight stature, she barely came to his chin. “Does it matter if I use the web catalogue to find your book?”

His lip twitched. “If you don’t need it, then by all means, don’t use it. I’m looking for a book called _The Virgin and Her Lover_.”

Belle could do nothing for a few seconds but stare at the well-dressed man. When he raised an eyebrow, she walked around the desk and toward the cart with books that had been checked back in, but not yet re-shelved.

“You know, it’s funny,” she said, righting the small stack of books left on the shelf.

“Funny that a man like me wants a book like that?” he asked from somewhere behind her, closer than she’d expected, and she jumped. How had she not heard his cane moving?

“No,” she said, once her heart had calmed. She plucked the book out and whirled to face him, skittering back when she found that he was only about a foot away, and nearly toppling over the shelf. She thrust the book toward him.

“What, then?”

“That book’s been on the shelves for years, gathering dust, and now two people have checked it out in as many weeks.” She shook her head. “I just think it’s strange.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowed in thought, and she had the sudden feeling that she was being x-rayed.

“Well, if that’s all you want, I’ll just check you out, then—I mean, your book. I’ll check your book out. If you’ll just follow—”

“Miss French,” he said, grabbing her arm before she could even take a step, and she vaguely wondered how he knew her name.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to accompany me to a luncheon this afternoon? Formal affair, so you’ll need to change. Since you’re a librarian, I’d imagine you need a new dress entirely, but that can be arranged, and I’ll need you to promise not to write it into the novel that you’re working on. It’s at one o’clock, sharp, and I never arrive late.”

She stared at him. He wouldn’t have surprised her more if he’d taken out a baseball bat and started beating her with it.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I need a date, Miss French, and you’ll do.”

That was something she understood—he was insulting her. “I’ll _do_?”

“Yes. As long as you can get a new dress, as I said.”

Things were moving so fast, Belle wasn’t sure what was going on anymore. How long ago had she been staring at her blank computer screen? An hour? Half a minute?

“I’m engaged,” she said, though this was a fact she usually forgot—and tried actively to do so.

“Oh, I assumed you would be fine with it, since your engagement isn’t happy. My mistake.” He started to turn, and Belle found herself lurching after him.

“Wait! What do you mean ‘it’s not happy?’”

He paused, and she could have sworn she heard a smug chuckle before he turned back to face her. This man was infuriating. “Your ring is sitting on your desk.”

Belle blinked, and glanced down at her bare hand to find that he was right. She was so used to taking it off that she didn’t even notice when she did it anymore. Flushing, she clasped her hands behind her back so that he couldn’t see them, and decided to change the subject.

“So this—this lunch. Why should I go with you? What do you mean ‘I’ll do?’”

“Miss French,” he said, taking a step closer to her. She couldn’t move backward because of the shelves, but she did lean away, feeling like she had to look up more than she should have to meet his gaze. “This lunch is a matter of life and death. If I go unaccompanied, something awful could happen.”

Belle stared at him, and she had the impression that he was telling the truth, though it sounded unreasonable and ridiculous. Fixed with his intense gaze, however, she could do nothing but swallow and nod.

“Yeah—okay. I’ll go with you.”

 

* * *

She didn’t know what he was looking for. When he’d said that he could arrange getting her a new dress, she hadn’t realized that it meant he was going to take her shopping.

In the dressing room, she was pulling up a ruched green gown with a sweetheart neckline that the sales clerk had chosen. It wasn’t her favorite dress—that navy polka-dotted a-line that fit her like she was meant to wear it had already been shot down by Raphael the second she stepped out of the dressing room—but it fit, and it was the twelfth dress she’d tried on, and she was tired.

“Okay, what do you think?” she asked, determined not to glance down at the hem that went far past her flat feet. All she’d need to fix it were heels. Just heels.

“No, it’s wrong,” he said, not even bothering to glance up from his phone.

“You’re not even—”

“It’s too long, too formal, and that bow on the shoulder looks ridiculous next your head. Next.”

Belle made a noise that was something like a growl—a noise she was sure that she’d never made before—and Raphael looked up, blinking at her in surprise.

“What are you looking for, Raphael? I have tried on twelve dresses, and some of them have looked really nice on me. We don’t have much more time, so just pick something out and be done with it.” She knew it was rude of her to yell at him when he’d already claimed to be paying for her purchases, but she hoped that he knew how uncomfortable it was to wriggle in and out of expensive dresses.

Raphael sighed, as though she were being difficult on purpose instead of listening to every word he said and following all of his directions. “I’ve already told you. The dress needs to look alluring, but demure—classy, but a little bit dangerous—captivating, but unattainable—and expensive.”

For the first time in a long time, Belle found her nostrils flaring with annoyance. “Raphael, if we could not find that dress in the twelve that I’ve just tried on, then it does not exist.”

“I’ll unzip you,” he said, standing up.

She turned around and lifted her hair, too fed up to mind that they barely knew each other and he had already seen the back strap of her bra plenty of times. When he’d gotten it undone, he handed her a lacy red dress.

“Go on then, Miss French. Haven’t got all day.”

Once it was on, and she was twirling alone in front of the dressing room mirror, Belle bit her lip. Since the blue dress fiasco, she had determined not to get attached to any of them, but this dress was proving just as tricky as that one. It fit her well—not like the others that fit acceptably, but really, truly well, and she felt as flattered as if the dress was spouting sincere compliments.

She allowed herself half a minute to admire herself, shuffling her feet so that he would think she was still getting dressed. He was going to put his foot down, just like he had with all the other dresses, because this dress was modest and came just past her knees with a high-neckline and a swishy a-line skirt.

“Miss French?”

With a sigh, she opened the dressing room door. He stared at her, and she wasn’t sure what to make of the way the corners of his mouth twitched. Was this dress even worse than the bubblegum halter top that he’d had to look away from, despite the fact that he’d selected it?

“It’s perfect.”

He turned to pick up his suit jacket, but she just stared. “What?”

“It’s perfect. Exactly what we’ve been looking for. Wear it out, if you’d like, I’ll go pay for it. Unless you need to run home and get better underwear.”

Belle was barefoot, still staring at him as he shrugged into his jacket.

“But this isn’t dangerous. It’s hardly even captivating. It’s something I would pick out for myself.”

“It’s red, dearie. Red is always dangerous. I should have thought of it before.” He shook his head as if to clear a fog, and then looked back up at her. “Well, come on. She can’t ring it up if you’re wearing the price tag over there.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she just rushed back into the dressing room the get the dress off, tossing it out to him before she was dressed so that he could hurry. She’d need to go back home anyway, to freshen up and accessorize, but now what he said was sinking in, and she found herself blushing. Did she need different underwear? Was he paying close enough attention to realize—or had it just been a guess, some sort of courtesy he was trying to provide?

Clutching her purse in clammy fingers, she hurried out to meet him and retrieve her new dress.

 

* * *

 

The Storybrooke socialite scene was well publicized, and televised on most local networks, according to the woman who washed her hands next to Belle. An hour later, Belle still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that she’d been photographed on  the still-mysterious Raphael’s arm at least a dozen times. He’d been good enough to fend off anyone with a video camera or tape recorder, but it was difficult to keep photographers from snapping candid shots.

She didn’t know why she was at the luncheon, and she also hadn’t figured out why Raphael was. He interacted with no one, save for a man that she recognized vaguely as some sort of local politician for a short time during their salad course. He did lean in close to some groups of women and take deep breaths, but Belle found that too odd to mention. It seemed that her date lacked social skills, though he looked at ease throughout the meal, even when he was seized by sneezes after he leaned into a woman who smelled like the gardenia apocalypse.

After the lobster course, Raphael leaned back, letting his hand hover at her shoulder without coming close enough to touch.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, and for a second, his voice almost made her believe that they were on a real date, and that she wasn’t some volunteer escort for his strange outing.

“Not really, no,” she said, and she thought she saw his mouth twitch into a tiny grin.

“Don’t worry, we’ll leave soon.” He leaned back in his chair, threading his fingers together atop the table. “So, why haven’t you been sleeping with your fiancé?”

Belle choked on her breath, eyes watering. “I beg your pardon?” 

It was true, though, and she found her anger dissipating faster than she’d expected in the face of Raphael’s watchful gaze. She knew nothing about him, and yet he knew things about her that she’d never told anyone—her engagement was unhappy, she was writing a novel, and now that she and Clive hadn’t had sex in over a year. She sighed.

“How did you know?”

He shrugged, looking impossibly elegant with his coarse hands and hair that brushed the tops of his shoulders. Belle wished she could figure him out as easily as he seemed to have figured her, but thus far, she didn’t have anything more impressive than the thought that he might be lonely and friendless.

“Lucky guess.”

Pressing her hands into her lap, Belle turned herself toward him. He flinched when their knees brushed, glancing down like she’d set him on fire. When he looked back up at her, his eyes were narrowed, until she saw him flick his gaze to her thighs, where she was clutching at her skirt. He relaxed.

“Have we met before today?” she asked.

She was glad that he at least pretended to give the question some consideration. She might have thought that he was actually thinking about it, but she could see his eyes darting around, taking in everything around them while he stalled.

“No, definitely not.”

“Then how do you know all about me?”

He chuckled, and she felt like it was somehow at her expense. “Let’s just say that I have a gift.”

She pursed her lips. “What kind of gift?”

“The gift of knowledge. I know all about you, Miss French.”

“Oh, do you?” She folded her arms, leaning toward him, a little unnerved when he mirrored her, leaving only about a foot of space between their faces.

“I know your name is Belle French, that your father is Moe French, and that he is in a lot of debt. I know that you are engaged unhappily to a man you’ve known for a very long time, who is not as wealthy as you think he is—though that wouldn’t matter to you either way, you’re not a woman who needs riches. You want a family and children, but you’re starting to wonder if your fiancé is the right person for the job. You don’t have many friends, which is why you have no one to tell you not to marry him, so you still think it’s a good idea. You’re close enough to thirty that you’re feeling like you’re running out of options, but far enough away that you’re still okay with a long engagement. You haven’t told anyone that you’re writing a novel. You—”

“Okay!” Belle squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “Okay, you’ve made your point. You did your homework this morning.”

Raphael let out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t research you. I’m just observant.”

“I can observe too, you know,” Belle said, not quite sure where this competitive side was coming from, but also not surprised that this man was the one to bring it out in her.

“Oh?”

“Yes. I remember everything that everyone checks out at the library. Do you see that woman over there?” She pointed to a woman she knew was middle aged because she’d read her driver’s license, but who’d had enough Botox and plastic surgery to look just a bit older than Belle. Her hair was up in a coif that Belle thought was unnecessarily fancy for just a luncheon, but it lent a cocktail party elegance to her pastel skirt-suit.

“Yes. That’s Susan Adcock.”

“Well, she was the first person to check out _The Virgin and Her Lover_.”

His lip curved to the left, and it was like a compliment that Belle could feel all the way in the tips of her toes.

“Perhaps not the most useful skill, but certainly impressive. Your betrothed should learn to appreciate it more.”

Belle’s pleasure evaporated, and she scowled. “Would you stop that? You don’t even know Clive.”

“Clive.” He made a face like he’d just taken a bite of something rancid, gave a tiny shudder, then waved a hand and returned to normal. “Well, you’ve confirmed my suspicions. Come on, it’s time to go confront her.” He started to stand, and Belle frowned.

“Confront her? For reading romance novels?”

He let out another bark of laughter, reaching for his cane. “Of course not. We’re confronting her for murder.”

Belle opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She tried many more times, gave up, and just let her face pale and her eyes widen before she managed to choke out, “ _Murder_?”

He nodded like she’d just asked him if it was raining, and she tugged him back into his chair. He fell in a graceful heap. She hated him a little bit for it.

“What do you mean ‘murder?’”

He looked at her like she was asking how gravity worked. “She killed her lover. I knew it was her, but I had to get close enough to smell her perfume and I hadn’t yet. You just confirmed what I already knew.”

Belle blinked, keeping her fingers clenched around his sleeve so that he couldn’t go anywhere while she was processing the information. “I don’t understand.”

He sighed, and she considered poking him in the eye to get the smarmy glint out of it. “David Howell was murdered last week. Left next to his body was a hand-written receipt for the checkout of _The Virgin and Her Lover_. It had your signature, the book title, and the faint scent of perfume, but not the woman’s name. I had a hunch that it was Mrs. Adcock, but this was the solid proof that I needed.”

Had he come to the library with the expectation of bringing her to this luncheon? Was she okay with that? The one thing she did know was that, if what he said was true, they shouldn’t just walk up and say so.

“Raphael, if that woman’s a murderer, then we should call the police.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Because she’s a murderer!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He shook her hand off and stood up again, pushing his chair in and adjusting his tie in one swift motion. “This is the best part of solving a crime.”

He walked off, leaving Belle flabbergasted in her chair. He was only a few feet away when he turned around to frown at her. “Aren’t you coming?”

Belle stared at him. “Of course I’m not coming. She’s a—” She lowered her voice, though no one was paying attention to either of them. “— _murderer_.”

“Oh.” His jaw pulsed, like he was clenching his teeth, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he was considering smiling to make himself look neutral, but couldn’t quite manage a fake expression. “Of course. I just thought you might want to come with me.”

Belle had never thought that she would hurt anyone’s feelings by not wanting to confront a killer with them, but it was clear to her that Raphael was feeling rejected by her concerns for her own safety. With a sigh, she stood, smoothing her dress out. He looked at her, reminding her of a puppy watching its master eat and praying for scraps to fall.

“All right. But if things start to get out of hand, we’re running away.” She thrust her finger at him, daring him to disagree. Belle liked to consider herself brave, but she was also practical, and she was not about to be murdered today.

Raphael nodded, back to looking like the mysterious man he was, and waited for her to catch up. She couldn’t help the fact that she just inched along behind him—she had never spoken face to face with a murderer before. Even though there was no reason to suspect that Raphael was actually right, she couldn’t find it in her not to trust him, so she was taking any precaution she could.

He stopped, and Belle almost collided with his back.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, frowning. “Did you change your mind?”

“No.” He turned to face her, and she shrank from the disapproval on his face. “I can’t walk up with some sniveling coward trailing along behind me so no one will see her face.”

Belle’s lip dropped, and she drew herself up, straightening her shoulders and lifting her nose in the air. “Excuse me. I am not some ‘sniveling coward,’ thank you very much.”

She strode forward, hoping she was striding to the right person, and feeling like her will could crumble at any second and she’d be reduced to a weeping mess. Raphael fell in step with her, a smug tilt to the corners of his lips.

“Oh, I know, dearie.”

She whipped her head around to look at him, and he just chuckled. _Bastard_.

He met her gaze out of the corner of his eye, and offered his elbow. Against her less-than-kind feelings, she wrapped her hand around it, just in time for them to approach Mrs. Susan Adcock from behind.

Her table fell into a hush, and everyone’s gaze was drawn toward Raphael. All of the chairs were full, save for one draped in black silk in between Susan Adcock and a redhead in all black.

“Mrs. Adcock,” Raphael said. The woman turned in her chair and jumped, pressing a hand to her bosom.

“Mr. Gold. What a surprise. No room at your table?”

Belle frowned. Mr. Gold?

“Oh, plenty of room, I just fancied a chat. Mind if I sit?” He gestured to the chair draped in silk, pulling it out before anyone could speak. Belle was about to be angry that he was just leaving her standing there after goading her into coming when he turned to her, waving his hand to the chair. “Care for a seat?”

She looked between the woman in black and the chair in black, and it wasn’t hard to deduce that her husband was dead, and that this seat was meant for him.

“No, thank—” Belle interrupted herself with a yelp, clenching her hands in front of her so they couldn’t fly to her mouth. In front of her, Raphael bared his teeth in a shark’s grin.

“Well, if you’re sure,” he said, settling himself into the seat. The woman that Belle knew had to be Mrs. Howell threw her napkin at her empty plate and stood up.

“Mr. Gold, this is uncalled for, even from you!”

Surely, there had to be more than one Mr. Gold in town? If he’d been _the_ Mr. Gold, he’d have introduced himself as such, wouldn’t he? No one knew Mr. Gold’s first name. He wouldn’t have given it to her right off the bat.

“I need to speak with Mrs. Adcock. Were you saving this chair for someone?”

Mrs. Howell squawked, and all of the people at the table either looked elsewhere, or glared at Raphael. Belle hurried over and put her arm around the widow, not considering the fact that some of the socialites might be loathe to touch a poor librarian.

“Mrs. Howell, he’s so very sorry. He’ll only be a minute, I swear.”

It was only when Raphael looked at her like a shark who’d just spotted particularly fun prey, and Mrs. Howell frowned that Belle realized what she’d done.

“How do you know my name? Have we met?” she asked. Belle cast a helpless look at Raphael, knowing he would be of no use, and then her eyes fell upon the table.

“The place card!” she blurted. “I have good eyes. I read a lot. I’m a librarian. Have to spot book titles from miles away, you know?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Mrs. Howell said, nodding. Belle patted her shoulders.

“Why don’t we go find a cup of tea?” she offered, not knowing what else to do while Raphael stirred up trouble.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Miss French, I’ll only be a moment.”

Belle bit her lip, counting down from ten in her head, knowing—even after only a few hours of being acquainted with him—that something terrible was about to happen.

“Mrs. Howell, did you know that Susan was having an affair with your husband?”

There was a collective gasp from the table, and Belle squeezed her eyes shut.

“I beg your pardon?” Susan Adcock said.

“Now, look here, Mr. Gold.” A man with a walrus mustache leaned around Mrs. Adcock, and Belle wasn’t surprised that she was having an affair with someone else. He had a toupee that didn’t quite reach the limits of his actual hair, leaving a small gap, and his face was ruddy from drink.

“You have my attention, Mr. Adcock,” he said, tapping his fingers on his cane.

“My wife is loyal. She knows where she stands with me and she accepts her place in the world.” He laid a thick hand on the back of Susan’s neck that made Belle’s blood boil. She couldn’t imagine that anyone would kill poor Mrs. Howell’s husband when they shared a life with this man.

“Oh, yes. Like a loyal dog,” Gold said.

For a second, Belle was afraid that Mrs. Adcock would jump on him. She clutched at her fork like she wanted to raise it and stab. Belle tensed, ready to leap.

“Exactly,” Mr. Adcock said.

“What?”

Everyone turned to look at Belle. Belle would have turned to look at herself if she could have—she hadn’t meant to speak. Now that everyone’s attention was on her, she couldn’t just cover her mouth and beg silence. She looked at Raphael, who inclined his head a fraction, and then swallowed.

“You shouldn’t talk about your wife like that,” she said, arms still around a confused Mrs. Howell. “She’s not your property, she’s your partner. She shouldn’t be comparable to a dog, unless it’s a seeing-eye dog.”

Mr. Adcock stood up, mustache quivering. He was about Raphael’s height, but stubbier. Belle squeezed Mrs. Howell to her side when he loomed over them.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Belle looked up at him, dropping Mrs. Howell’s shoulders put herself between the man and the widow. “Who are you? You think that just because you can afford to eat here, you can treat people however you want? Well you can’t. This woman is your wife, and you should be grateful that it wasn’t you that she killed.”

This time, when the table gasped, Belle’s hands did fly to her mouth. What had she done?

“What?” Mrs. Howell screeched, closer to Belle’s ear than she remembered her being. She winced.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Adcock said. She whirled to face Raphael, but her husband spoke first.

“Gold, what is the meaning of this?”

“Why don’t you ask your wife, Mr. Adcock?”

Mr. Adcock turned his attention on Belle, taking a step closer and clenching his fists at his side. “Why don’t you keep your woman in check, Mr. Gold?”

Belle would have really liked it if Raphael had stood up then, and told her that they had the wrong suspect—that Mr. Adcock was the real culprit—but he did no such thing, and Belle was left retreating as the pudgy man gained on her, while everyone watched and no one tried to stop him.

“You are nothing,” he said, pausing when he realized they’d garnered an audience.

“Mr. Gold,” she said, glancing at him. “Now would be a good time to reveal what you know.”

He shrugged, watching her with more amusement than anyone else. “Why? You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

His eyes flicked to the left, and Belle followed. Lurking in the corner was a man in a blue uniform. Belle almost cried with relief.

“All right.” She turned to Mr. Adcock, raising her hands to ward him off just in case he chose to attack. “You, sir, are rude. You should respect your wife more because she is a person, just like you. More of a person than you, even though she killed someone.”

She glanced at Mrs. Adcock. Her head was bowed, and Belle could see her cheeks flushing. She felt a twinge in her chest. “It was an accident, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to leave his wife for you, like he’d always promised, and you didn’t mean to kill him. You just lost control of—”

“—The candelabra,” Raphael supplied. 

“You just lost control of the candelabra—wait, who loses control of a candelabra?” She turned to Raphael. “Really, that’s a deliberate weapon.”

“I don’t know, you’re the one telling her she’s a murderer,” he said.

“No!” Susan Adcock looked up, clutching in front of her at nothing. “No, he was never planning to leave Deborah. That was never part of our plan!”

Belle frowned, while the rest of the table gasped. “Well, if that wasn’t it, then why?” She looked down at Raphael, and he jerked his head at the stunned tablemates. One woman was watching Mrs. Howell instead of Belle.

“Oh!” She clapped. “He was having another affair—with her!”

At that, Mrs. Adcock let out a wail that made Belle jump.

“He promised I was the only one. He _promised_!”

Mr. Adcock started to bluster, but was stopped by the young cop cutting his way between them. “Come with me, Mrs. Adcock,” he said, his voice calm and soothing. Belle wouldn’t have minded if he’d said that to her instead. With the day she was having, she could use a nice cop with nice muscles and an Irish accent to help unwind.

Raphael stood up, letting the officer lead the blubbering woman away in cuffs while her husband chased after. He sidled over to Belle, resting both hands on his cane.

“Well done, Miss French. Shall we?”

Belle turned to him and just blinked for a few seconds. “We can leave now?”

“Well, we’ve made at least two women cry—I think it’s time, don’t you?”

“Are they going to take us in for questioning?” she asked, feet planted on the ground. She watched TV and read crime novels. She knew how these things worked.

“We’ll get down there. No need to rush.”

Belle had never seen anyone take murder so lightly. He’d been far more concerned about which dress she was wearing. 

“Well, then maybe we should stay for dessert?” It was exhilarating to solve crimes, and she was feeling reckless enough to postpone their trip to the station at least half an hour. Maybe now that she’d earned his respect—visible in his upturned lips even in the aftermath—she could find out more about him.

“Certainly.” He spread a hand toward their table. “Or we could take it with us, and eat outside.”

Belle cast a glance at their table, at the politician she vaguely recognized, and then the circle of otherwise unfamiliar faces, none of which had made any effort to engage Belle in conversation or respond to any of her efforts. Raphael, it seemed, was full of good ideas.

“How do we get it before they set it out?” Everyone was set back by the surprise murder-solving, including all of the wait-staff that had stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation.

“I can be very persuasive.”

Since she was at a charity lunch on a day she had work, in a dress she’d been coerced into speed-shopping for, and on the arm of a man she’d just met, she was inclined to agree. He disappeared toward the kitchens and then, less than five minutes later, he was walking back toward her with two white boxes balanced in his free hand and chin.

“I’ve got it,” he said when she tried to take them from him so that he wasn’t fumbling. “I can carry a box of food.”

He still managed to look graceful and elegant, even with his chin hooked over a box. Belle stepped back with a murmured apology, watching his mouth tighten. She made a mental note to never do anything obvious about helping him with his bum leg again.

“I saw some tables outside,” she said, standing close enough that she could catch a box of one fell, but far enough that she hoped it looked casual. He cut a glare toward her, but said nothing. Battle won.

“Yes, those will do.”

The doors leading outside the museum were glass, which meant that they saw the flock of news people with their cameras and recorders before they had to meet them. Leading the gaggle was a man Belle recognized as Sidney Glass, editor of _The Mirror_ , with a man carrying a camera at his shoulder. Belle stopped walking.

“Are they waiting for Mrs. Howell?”

“No,” he said, voice rough and brogue thickened. “They’re waiting for us.”

“What?” Why would a news crew be waiting for them? They hadn’t done anything other than solve a murder. Hadn’t they gotten enough press coverage inside the luncheon?

“Come on. We’ll have to face it eventually.”

Before Belle could formulate any sort of plan, or look for alternate exits, Raphael thrust the boxes at her and threw his arm behind her back, letting it hover just above her skin.

“Raphael, we can’t just walk into—”

But they could, and he was urging her forward, jaw square and set. Then, he pushed the doors open, and Belle found herself tucked against Raphael’s chest with his jacket over her head. It was lucky that she was already short, though it was not lucky for the up-do on which she’d spent a good half hour.

There was no time to ask what he was doing, because all of the news people swarmed them like mosquitoes, and Belle was grateful that no one could see her face. Did Storybrooke even have this many journalists?

“What do we do?” Belle asked, unsure if he could hear her since she was muffled against his abdomen.

“Follow my cane.”

She twisted her head so that she could see where his cane stepped, wrapping one arm around his back to keep her balance and pressing the dessert boxes to his stomach and her chin. Every few seconds, he would lash out with his cane at a reporter’s feet, and a group of them would skitter back. There were so many shouts of ‘Mr. Gold, Mr. Gold!’ that they all started to blur together—until someone shouted ‘Belle!’

She recognized that voice.

“Raphael, we need to hurry, I have to let go!”

“Almost there, dearie. If they see your face now, you won’t get a minute’s peace until next year.”

She took his word for it, though she thought that perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d never been forced under his jacket in the first place.

He took a turn between two shops, leading her down an uneven road, and then another. Behind her, she could hear Clive rushing after them—she hoped it was Clive, at least, and not a rogue journalist. The loafers looked like her fiancé’s.

As soon as Raphael released her three alleyways over, Clive rounded on her.

“Belle, what the hell is going on? I was at lunch with a client and we saw you on the news with Gold. The news, Belle!”

“Just give me one second, and I will explain,” Belle said, smoothing her hair from its sojourn under Raphael’s jacket before turning to the man himself. “Why didn’t you tell me you were _the_ Mr. Gold?”

“Didn’t I?”

“No, you did not, and you know that you did not, so don’t—”

“Belle, tell me what the hell happened.” Clive gripped her upper arm.

“Clive, please, it was nothing—”

“It didn’t look like nothing. You guys looked pretty cozy to me. Does this even mean anything to you?” He raised her hand and wagged it at her, but sucked in a gasping breath when he saw her empty ring finger.

“Let me explain—”

“Belle, are you having an affair?”

“Clive—”

“She was aiding me in a case.” Raphael stepped between them, blocking Belle with his slight frame, though Clive didn’t let go of her hand.

“What?”

“I’m sure you know who I am, Mr. Gaston.”

Belle was still a little miffed that she was the only one who didn’t seem to know who he was. Then again, her father was always the one to pay the final rent check.

“Of course. You’re Mr. Gold.”

“And what is my job, Mr. Gaston?”

“You’re my landlord. But that doesn’t mean I have to give you my fiancée, and if you think it does, then you’re going to have to evict—”

“I have no interest in evicting you, or your future father-in-law.” He glanced at Belle out of the corner of his eye like he was trying to tell her something, but she had no idea of what.

“Then give me back my fiancée.”

Raphael sighed, a world-weary sigh that suggested people asked him for their own fiancées more often than not, and he was just getting tired of it. “Mr. Gaston, do we need the lesson about how people aren’t objects to be bandied about?”

Clive jerked his chin around to face Belle. “What’s he talking about? I don’t like this one bit, Belle.”

“Let me reintroduce myself,” Raphael said, and Belle thought he might have gotten a bit taller in front of her. He held his hand toward Gaston. “Mr. Gold, Psychic Detective.”

Belle almost choked while Gaston’s thick brow furrowed into one long, fuzzy bat shape, but she didn’t say anything. If Gold was gulling him, that was his business—she’d long since stopped trying to make Clive look less stupid.

“What do you mean?” Clive asked.

“I mean that I solve crimes psychically. Sometimes it helps to have a person around to translate the visions—Miss French was aiding me in a case.”

Clive narrowed his eyes, but before he could protest, Raphael had slipped a card out of his breast pocket and handed it to him. In dark black letters, it read ‘MR. GOLD – PSYCHIC DETECTIVE.’ Clive took the card and squinted at it before looking back up at Belle.

“You translated his visions?”

“Absolutely.” Apparently.

“Oh.” Presented with a business card that Gold had obviously not pulled out of nowhere, Clive’s steam evaporated. “Right. So, will you be home for dinner?”

“Y—”

“That can be arranged, yes,” Raphael said.

“Did you just answer for me?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Yes, I need to speak with you. Run along, please, Mr. Gaston. You may keep my card, free of charge.” He shooed him toward the end of the alley, and Clive followed looking like large, confused child.

“Okay, Belle, I’ll see you later,” he said over his shoulder, blowing her a kiss. She blew one back, and almost hit Raphael in the face as she did because he whirled around.

“Psychic detective?” she asked, lowering her hands. “You’re not a psychic.”

“Sh. No one else knows that.” He pressed a finger to his lips, but the corners were tilting up in amusement.

“Why did you trust me?”

“I knew you were trustworthy.”

“How?”

“I’m a psychic, remember?”

“No, you’re not.”

“I might as well be.”

She folded her arms, drawing herself up to look him square in the eye, but he didn’t back down—no one ever backed down.

“I know all about you, Miss French.”

“Belle. And how? Are you stalking me?”

He laughed in a way that made her shiver, and she couldn’t tell if it was a good shiver or a bad one—a mix of both, she thought. The laugh would have made anyone feel a bit like doomsday was nearer.

“Of course not, Miss French. I only met you this morning.”

“But you know my father and my fiancé?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve learned about me from them?”

“Miss French, I would like to offer you a job.”

“What?”

“A job. Surely, you’ve heard of those.”

She clenched her teeth together so tightly, her nostrils flared. “I already have a job.”

“Oh, this won’t affect that. I want you to be my assistant.”

“What?” She needed to work on being more articulate when it came to Raphael Gold. “Why?”

“Miss French, I think we both know that you want more out of life than to marry the Hulk and work in a library for the rest of your days. Come work for me, and I can guarantee adventure.”

She chewed her lip. “Who says I want adventure?”

He raised an eyebrow at her, and when she said nothing, sighed. “Do content people agree to up and leave work so that they can go have a mysterious lunch with a mysterious stranger?”

She scrunched her lips together. He had a point. “What would being your assistant entail?”

He grinned like a cat with a mouse in its sights. She didn’t like being the mouse. “Well, you did come in at the last leg of the case today, so normally you’d come with me to crime scenes, help me research, talk to people when I need you to—”

“You mean, be your social buffer when you need me to?”

“If that’s how you want to look at it.” He waved a hand.

Belle chewed her lip again. It all sounded perfect—research, adventure, having human contact during the day that wasn’t a child or a grandmother. The only iffy part was the crime scene, but she thought she could probably handle it if it wasn’t too gruesome.

“And this would just be on an as-needed basis? I’d still be a librarian?”

“Of course. Oh, but I need a caretaker as well, so you’d have to move in with me. I can have your things picked up tomorrow.”

He said it casually, like he didn’t want her to notice that he was saying it at all, and she almost didn’t.

“Wait, what? Move in with you?”

“Yes. You don’t live with your fiancé, and it’s not like you would have to live in my bedroom. I need someone to cook. Then you’d be available whenever I needed you. Of course, you’d live there for free. You do pay some of your father’s rent, do you not?”

“Well, yes, but he needs—”

“I’ll cut his rent by whatever your usual contribution is.”

It was a good offer, but even Belle wasn’t adventurous enough to just decide to move in with a man she’d just met that morning. Gold had a reputation in town, and while she didn’t believe most of the things she heard—or thought that he had good reasons for doing what he did—she wasn’t positive that she would be safe living in his house.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

“I need an answer now.”

“Well, then the answer is no.”

“Take your time, think it over, it’s all right,” he said, and she tried not to smile in triumph. “You do agree to the assistantship though, correct?”

“Yes.” This was the closest she would ever get to adventure. “When do I start?”

He pointed to the boxes at her feet. “After dessert?”

She held out her hand. “It’s a deal,” she said, and he almost smiled as they shook on it.


	2. Sage Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS FINALLY I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY<3

Belle woke up in the dark to birdsong playing from her cell phone on the nightstand. Clive’s arm around her waist told her that it was sometime before 5:30, the time his alarm would ring to get him up for his morning run. A look at the clock declared it 5:22.

“Hello?” she mumbled into the phone. At this hour, it could only be an emergency.

“Good morning, Miss French.”

“Who is it?” Clive said, shifting until his head was almost on top of hers. She burrowed into the pillows.

“Mr. Gold?” Belle said, blinking some of the sleep from her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“We have a case.”

Belle groaned. “Raphael, it’s 5:30 in the morning.”

“Crime never sleeps, Miss French.”

“Yes, but I do.”

“I’m going for my run,” Clive said, lumbering out of bed.

“Belle, are you really going to be so selfish as to sleep when there is a crime being committed this very minute?”

It must have been serious if he was using her first name. “How do you know about it if it’s happening right now?”

“I had a client contact me. It’s ongoing.”

“If it’s ongoing, can’t it at least wait until sunrise?”

“Belle, a man’s life is at stake.”

Belle groaned and hauled herself upright a few more inches. “How at stake?”

“I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“What? That’s not what I said. I said ‘how at s—’” There was silence and then her phone vibrated against her face as she accidentally pressed a button with her cheek. She sighed and set her phone down, rubbing her crusty eyes. Apparently, she wasn’t going to be washing her hair this morning.

* * *

Gold was in front of Clive’s apartment in half an hour, which gave Belle time to make toast and let Clive know that she was leaving.

“We’re late,” Raphael said when she opened the door. He thrust a to-go cup at her with such force, its contents sloshed around audibly. She took it, balancing her toast on top so that she could grab her purse.

“Well, it’s not my fault you didn’t get here in twenty minutes.” She sniffed the rim of the cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“I didn’t know you were here. Your father was not happy when I woke him up. And you look very unprofessional, we’re going to have to discuss your wardrobe choices in the future.”

“You went to my father’s?”

“Well, that is where you live.”

“Well, this is where I sleep a lot.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, maybe I would have if you hadn’t hung up on me.”

He glared at her, and she bared her teeth in a smile, pushing past him to close the door. He trailed after her, and she was impressed with the speed with which he and his cane took the flight of stairs from the second floor.

“And stop talking about my clothes,” she said, opening the passenger door of his Cadillac. “I like them.”

“You’re wearing jeans.” He tossed his cane in the back, wedging himself in while Belle tried to juggle her coffee, toast, and purse.

“They’re nice jeans. And I put on a blazer. And maybe if you gave me more than twenty minutes at 5:30 in the morning, I would be wearing something nicer.” She slammed the door shut.

“You should be ready at a moment’s notice. It’s part of being a detective.”

“Well, I’m not a detective, I’m his assistant, and maybe you should have mentioned that in the job description.”

They glared at each other again, until Gold folded and turned to start driving. From then, it was a battle with breakfast because he seemed intent on getting wherever they were going before the first fingers of dawn stretched over the horizon. Belle choked on toast crumbs more than once, and had to hold her finger over the cup opening so that she wouldn’t get coffee—with a cream and two sugars, just like she liked it, somehow—all over his pristine interior.

“Where are we going?” She swallowed her last bite, staring wide-eyed at the woods lining the highway that led out of Storybrooke.  

“Somewhere no one can find us.”

Some crumbs caught in her throat again, making her wheeze, and Belle considered—not for the first time—that joining forces with a man she’d just met may not have been her best plan.

* * *

By the time they pulled up to a cabin about twenty miles outside of Storybrooke, Belle was reasonably certain that Gold wasn’t going to kill her, but she still wasn’t entirely sure that she would survive whatever was about to happen.

“What are we doing?” she whispered, though no one would be able to hear them outside of the car. She had visions of corpses hanging from the cabin’s ceilings, stripped of their flesh and dripping all over the floor. She had some faith that Gold could keep them both alive, but it wasn’t enough to comfort her.

“Come on. We’re late already.”

He put his arm around her, resting a hand on the small of her back to guide her forward, and she kept a firm grip on her purse. It was heavy enough that she could swing it at anyone who attacked.

A crack appeared in the blinds covering one of the windows, and then they were yanked shut again. When they reached the door, it swung open, revealing a blonde woman ushering them in with tight, quick waves of her arm. Gold shoved Belle through the doorway, then shut it behind him. The whole cabin smelled like incense, and there were leaves that might have been sage hanging all over the walls and around the lamps. Belle’s stomach rolled, the toast and coffee not settling it enough to handle the pungently sweet aroma.

“Oh, thank god you’re here,” the woman whispered, flicking a light switch. “Jim was afraid you’d been attacked.”

“Attacked by what?” Belle asked, unwilling to admit that she was soothed when Gold’s hand started rubbing tiny circles on her back.

“Gold!”

A man bigger than Gaston stepped out of the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming mugs. He had a necklace of the same leaves that decorated the cabin, and when Belle looked at the woman, she did, too.

“Mr. Frederickson.” Gold inclined his head. “This is my assistant, Belle French. Miss French, this is Jim and Kathryn Frederickson.”

He gave Belle a little push and she stumbled in front of him, and when Jim’s arms closed around her shoulders in a friendly—if a bit aggressive—hug, she understood why.

“We’re so glad you’re all right. Kathryn and I didn’t stop praying for you until we saw your car pull up. I found a piece of sage with thirteen leaves on it this morning, and I was sure something was going to happen to you, even after we burned it.”

“Um—” Belle swallowed, resigning herself to throwing tact to the wind. “—Why?”

“Why don’t we have some tea?” Kathryn said, picking up the tray and carrying it to the coffee table by the fire. Raphael took a seat on the couch, and Belle sat closer to his legs than she would have otherwise. After setting the tray down, Kathryn perched on the arm of Jim’s chair.

Jim sprinkled cinnamon into two mugs, then handed one to Kathryn. Raphael did the same, adding a squeeze of honey to Belle’s  while she watched with her eyebrows drawn.

“Cinnamon?” she whispered. She liked chai tea, but she’d never added spices to any other blend.

“You’ll thank me,” he whispered back, handing her a mug. The tea itself was a light green, and maybe cinnamon green tea was a Boston thing she’d never heard of.

“All right,” Jim said, leaning forward with one hand on his wife’s thigh, as if he was keeping her close in case of danger. “Are you ready?”

Belle nodded, taking a sup of her tea, and then gagged. “Is this sage?”

“Yes,” Kathryn said, giving her a wide-eyed look to suggest that she felt the same as Belle. “It’s a traditional middle-eastern morning drink, and it cleanses the mind, body, and soul.” She took an obedient sip with a visible swallow, urging Belle to do the same.

“It’s delightful.” Belle took a tiny sip, glad for the cinnamon offsetting some of the herb. She might not have minded it if she wasn’t already all but bathing in sage.

“All right, so the other—”

“Wait!” Belle blushed when Jim looked at her, blinking like a confused owl. “I should take notes.”

“You don’t have to,” Raphael said. “But you can if it makes you feel better.”

“It does.” She dug around in her purse for a pen and the notebook she always kept, flipping to a page in the back that was empty of novel ideas. “Okay. Go ahead.”

“Okay, so it all started about a month ago.” Jim wiggled forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. Kathryn laid a hand on his neck. “Weird things started happening to me. At first, I thought that it was the arena we were using to practice—”

“Practice what?” Belle asked, pen ready.

Everyone was silent until she looked up. “Hockey,” Raphael said. “He plays for the Bruins.”

She blinked looking around at everyone. “Right,” she said, taking a sip of tea. “Of course. I’m sorry, my mistake, it’s early. The, uh—the sage hasn’t cleansed my mind yet. Why don’t you start off by telling us about yourself? Your habits, your hobbies—if you have time for hobbies—your history.”

“Oh, right.” Jim nodded, shifting in his seat. “Well, I mean, hockey’s been my life ever since I was a teenager. My only other hobby is my wife.” He put his arm around her. “We have a pretty normal life, you know, outside of being a minor celebrity. She’s my agent, and the love of my life, which is perfect because no one can take care of me like she can, and I—”

“Jim.” Kathryn squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t think they want to hear your love letter to me.”

“Oh, right.” They exchanged a look, and Belle was reminded of newlyweds still mired in delirious bliss. “Well, anyway, we met in college—U Mass, of course—got married a few years later, and have been together ever since. I don’t think either of our families has a history of any medical disorders—”

“I don’t think she cares about our families’ medical histories,” Kathryn said.

“You never know,” Belle said with a shrug. “It could be important.”

“She’s right,” Gold said, peeking over her arm at her notes. “In case whoever is attacking you tries to use it against you.”

“I think you mean _what_ ever,” Jim said, lowering his voice.

“Excuse me?” Belle said.

“We’ve been through every possible explanation,” he said, shaking his head. “And the only option is spirits. How else would the wiring on the scoreboard have been able to spark at the exact moment I was standing under it? If Kathryn hadn’t been right there to warn me, we’d have both died.”

Belle could only mouth dumbly, so she took a sip of her tea.

“Or how about when a puck came flying at my neck when I wasn’t wearing any gear, but the only other person on the rink was Kathryn? Or when I almost slipped and fell in a puddle of ice that should have been frozen?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Belle said, hurrying to write all of the incidents down.

“We called you guys, because this is Mr. Gold’s specialty,” Kathryn said. “And the police refuse to listen. Even Graham thought we were just being paranoid, and we’d hoped that someone from home would be more sensitive to our plight.”

“Well,” Gold said, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “It definitely sounds like evil spirits.”

“It does?” Belle asked, whipping around to face him.

“Absolutely.” He nodded. “Have you angered anyone that died recently?”

Jim shook his head. “No, no one I can think of. I think our house must have been haunted, because our coffeepot exploded the other day. We must have angered the spirits there. I don’t think they followed us here, but we took precautions anyway.”

“You were right to do so,” Gold said, setting his cup down. “I think your precautions are doing well. We will, however, need to go examine your home, and your arena.”

Jim bobbed his head up and down, eyes wide like he was enthralled in a story. “Yeah, of course. The keys are—”

“I have everything ready in the kitchen. Miss French, if you’ll—come with me?” Kathryn said, jerking her head and widening her eyes.

Swallowing, Belle nodded and set her things down, following Kathryn to the tiny kitchenette. “You can just call me Belle,” she said, just before she was dragged behind the refrigerator.

“Okay, great.” Kathryn smiled, lips tight and pale. “So this evil spirit thing is bullshit, Belle,” she said, lowering her voice so that Belle had to put her ears right next to her lips. When she deciphered what she’d said, Belle jumped.

“What?”

“You heard me. I love my husband more than anything in the world, but he is an insane superstitious athlete who thought you were going to die because there were thirteen leaves on a sage stalk.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a bag. “Here are our house keys, arena passes, everything you need. There’s also a few bags in there of things I’ve collected from some incidents that might have DNA or fingerprints, as well as hair from myself and Jim so that you don’t get the DNA confused.”

Belle took the bag, lips moving soundlessly. “That’s very thorough of you.”

“I’m a lawyer, Belle. First and foremost. I don’t believe that evil spirits is a valid explanation for what’s going on.”

“Oh, good, I don’t think so, either.” Belle arranged the bag so that nothing that might make Jim suspicious was showing, prepared to stuff it into her purse the second she sat down.

“We’ll still be here, though, unless you need us. It’s been a pain living like this, but it’s better than the near-death experiences.” She shook her head. “I know if anyone can solve it, Gold can. And if he trusts you—well, I’m sure you’ll be great.”

“Thank you.” Belle wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she just smiled. “We’ll do our best.”

* * *

It was nine by the time they were back in the car, and Belle was starving. She had to get to work soon, but the fact that they had just consulted on a case was making her jittery, so she could take the morning off. No one ever came to the library at this hour on a Tuesday anyway.

“So what do you think?” Belle asked, settling in for the drive. Now that they didn’t need to rush, he was driving the speed limit, and not jerking the car around like a yo-yo.

“I want to know what you think, first.”

“I think Jim is crazy, but I’m not too surprised.”

“Oh, good, me too.” He glanced at her. “You got so much more enthusiastic after you left with Kathryn, though, so I was worried. What did she say to you?”

“Oh.” Belle fished around in her purse for the bag, and held it up. “She gave me all the keys we’d need, as well as some DNA samples.”

“Whose DNA?”

“Um, their DNA.” She looked through the bag. “And then some shards of things, it looks like, that she thinks might have fingerprints or DNA on them.”

“I know a man in Boston. We can drop it off at his lab.”

“Boston seems a long way to go just to drop something off.” She shoved the bag back into her purse, and when she looked up, he was watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“Obviously, we’ll be dropping it off on our way to the arena.”

“What?”

“We’re going to Boston this afternoon. I’ll drop you off at home so you can pack a bag, but then we really have to go.”

“Raphael, I can’t go to Boston. I have to work.”

He slammed on the breaks so quickly, the seatbelt knocked the wind out of Belle. After she finished choking on her breath, she turned to glare at him.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Belle, you are holding the keys we need in your bag.” He jabbed a hand toward her lap. “What did you think, we were just going to hang onto them for safe-keeping?”

“I—” She closed her mouth, frowning. What had she thought? “I don’t know, but you didn’t tell me we were going to Boston!”

“Well, I didn’t know, did I?”

She could call the backup librarian. She had never done so before, and really only let her work once a week so that Belle could take a day off, but she could do it. Ashley was always talking about how she hated her other job.

“Okay. Let’s go to Boston.” Next time, she would be more difficult to persuade. Maybe.

“There’s that adventure-lust,” Gold said, shifting the car back into gear. “I’m going to drop you off, and I’ll pick you up in an hour. You know, this would be much easier if you just lived with me.”

Belle shook her head, saying nothing as they eased back into speed. Living with Raphael Gold sounded like more than she could handle.

* * *

He gave her an hour and a half to pack, and she followed his instructions as best she could—professional, but casual; warm, but not wintry; not too bright, but not all black; and at least one outfit meant to make hockey players want to confess their sins to her. She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant—did it mean an innocent-cute outfit or a sexy outfit?—but she packed a red blouse and her favorite librarian cardigan, figuring one would work.

While she waited outside, she called Clive. It hadn’t occurred to her before that he might worry if he came home and found her engagement ring on the bedside table, with a suitcase and all of her other possessions missing.

“Hey,” she said when he picked up. “Listen, I have something strange to tell you.”

“Can you make it quick? I’m about to walk into a meeting,” he said.

“Yeah, of course. I’m going to Boston with Mr. Gold.”

There was a fizzy sounds like a soda can exploding, and then Clive’s usual indignant splutter. “What? What do you mean?”

“For a case! It’s for a case, don’t worry. I’m not sure how much I can tell you, actually, but it’s something to do with the Bruins.”

He made the fizzy noise again. “The Bruins? Really? Can you get me tickets? I’ve always wanted to meet Abramson.”

“I don’t know, Clive, I mean that’s not really what we’re—”

“This is so unfair, you don’t even like hockey. Okay, quiz: what’s slashing?”

“Clive, I don’t kn—”

“Come on, it’s a move.”

“Clive—”

“It’s against the rules.”

“ _Clive_ , I had to leave my ring on the nightstand because I didn’t want to lose it, so don’t be alarmed when you see it.”

Clive fell silent, but only for about half a second. “Okay, well, do you at least know how scoring works?”

“I have to go, I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up without a goodbye, stuffing her phone into her purse. Raphael’s Cadillac appeared around the corner a few seconds later, and he rolled down the window as she hurried toward it.

“I’ve packed you a bag,” he said, and she paused, hand on the back door.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, I’ve packed you a bag. Hurry and get in, I don’t want to be late.”

“But you told me to pack a bag.” She lifted her duffel. “You gave me criteria.”

“Plans change. Get in.”

Belle wasn’t prone to growling, but she felt like she’d been doing a lot of it since meeting him last week. Teeth bared at nothing, she tossed her bag into the backseat and slammed the door before going to hurl herself into the front seat.

“You’ll have to change as soon as we get to the hotel,” he said as though he’d never stopped talking.

“Change into what?”

“Your disguise.”

“My disguise?”

He was silent, and this scared her so much more than his talking did. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“Because my bribe is packed.”

At least he was bribing her. She didn’t like that she could be bought, but at least it meant she wasn’t a pushover. Of course, she’d have ended up doing what he said anyway, but still—it spared her dignity enough that she could pretend.

* * *

It was the nicest hotel Belle had ever stayed in, and she marveled at the fact that the concierge wasn’t just a myth from books. They were led up to their room—a suite on the fourth floor with separate bedrooms—and an actual bellboy carried their luggage for them on a trolley.

“All right, my bribe,” Raphael said once they were alone. Two of the bags that he had brought were hanging garment bags,  and the other was a small duffel.

“What is it?” She hefted her own suitcase and started for her room, surprised when he followed her.

“Your bag.” He unhooked the bag and let it unfurl to its longest, then hung it up on the door. “Open it.”

She blinked at the bag, not sure whether to be excited or terrified, and set her duffel down. He waited to the side of the door, watching her for her reaction, so she hurried to unzip the suitcase. When the cloth fell away, Belle squeaked.

There was a whole stack of dresses, and she was immediately in love. On top was a teal lace number with a sash that looked like it would fit Belle in all the right places, and some pink silk and black lace peeked out from beneath, and she chose to ignore the fact that he had probably memorized her measurements in order to acquire this new wardrobe.

“What—what’s the occasion?” she asked, sounding like she’d just been punched in the gut.

“We’re assuming identities. You should hang those up.”

She unhooked the first dress with the care she might use to handle an infant, and walked it over to the closet. The next dress was a black cocktail dress with gold filigree, and that got the same care as the first, as did the next three dresses, until she revealed a skin-tight black dress covered in golden panthers, and all she could do was stare.

“Wear that one,” Gold said, scrolling through his phone.

“What on earth possessed you to pick out this dress?”

“I’m making an impression. There are sunglasses to go with it.” He lifted a shopping bag that she hadn’t noticed before. “Your name is Claire Fields, and can you drop your accent?”

“Can I drop my accent?” She considered this. “I think so,” she said, using her best American voice, and he winced.

“Okay, just tone it down. You’ve been in America for a long time, most of your life.”

“Okay.” She took the dress off the hanger. “And what do I do for a living that I can afford a Versace dress like this to just wear casually?”

“You date rich old men.”

Belle’s tongue felt too big for her mouth, and she was going to choke on it. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t give me that look.” He glanced up from his phone. “I have to pretend to be the doddering old fool doting on you just so that you’ll fuck me whenever I ask. I even added grey to my hair.” He pointed to his sideburns.  

“I’m going to be ill.”

“I won’t ask you to demonstrate, if that makes you feel better.”

“Well, that thought hadn’t even crossed my mind, so thank you.” She shuddered. “Should I put this on now?”

“Yes, and hurry, we’re meeting with the team in an hour.”

Since he didn’t seem interested in playing with his phone in a different room, she shut him into the bedroom and changed in the common room, liking the way the dress fit, but still on the fence about the panthers.

“Why exactly are we a couple?” she asked, pushing the door back open.

“It makes the most sense for our close proximity. We don’t look like father and daughter, calling you my employee will arouse suspicion, and if I say you’re my girlfriend, people are going to think you’re a gold digger anyway, so I might as well just be your sugar daddy.”

“Please never say ‘sugar daddy’ again,” she said, fluffing her hair in the mirror. “Why can’t we just be married?”

“Oh, right.” He stood, digging around in his pocket as he walked over. His hand emerged with an engagement ring. “We’re on our way.”

Belle stared at it. “Oh my god, why do you have an engagement ring?”

“It was my wife’s. I’m sorry it’s silver, I know you prefer gold.”

“You know I am actually engaged. I could have just worn my actual ring.”

Gold let out a bark of laughter. “No one would believe that someone like me would pick out a monstrosity like that. Put it on, we haven’t got all day. There are these, too.” After Belle took the ring, he reached into another pocket and pulled out a small box.

“What’s that?” She felt faint sliding the ring onto her finger, but she was determined not to hyperventilate. She was going to have to get used to frivolous money-spending if she was going to be working for one of the richest men in Maine.

He opened the box to reveal diamond studs, and she swallowed.

“Fake diamonds, nice touch,” she said, though she didn’t believe this even before he snickered.

“Please, Belle. You should know by now that I don’t half-ass a disguise. Put them on. Clean them if you want, there’s peroxide in the bathroom.”

She did, but only because she needed the time to calm down. If she was going to be playing Claire Fields the gold digger, she couldn’t go weak at the sight of a diamond. She touched up her makeup, too, trying to give herself a Lorelei Lee sort of air, and then twisted her hair into a chignon. Raphael was waiting with the sunglasses, and after Belle slipped them on, she barely recognized herself.

“All right,” he said, offering her his arm. “Let’s go become benefactors of the Bruins.”

* * *

It was cold in the rink, and Belle was about to complain until Raphael produced a shawl for her from his briefcase. Then, it wasn’t exactly warm, but at least she was protected from the brunt of the chill.

“I’m calling you Anthony, right?” she asked, fingers clenched around his elbow. “Unless you want me to call you ‘Mr. Gold?’”

A tiny smirk played about his lips. What the hell was he thinking about? “Anthony will be fine, Claire.”

“Oh god, what if I mess up? Anthony?”

“You won’t.” He patted her on the hand. “If you get nervous, play stupid and bat your eyelashes.”

“Okay. Okay, I can do that.” Belle swallowed—that would probably be the hardest part of all.

“Just pretend you’re Clive.”

The bubble of laughter that escaped sounded almost hysterical, and Raphael pressed his lips together like he was trying not to follow suit. By the time he’d led her to the rink, they had both schooled their expressions into something aloof and emotionless, and Belle thought maybe she should have brought a scarf for her hair so that she could look sixties-chic.

 There were only a few players on the rink. On the sidelines was a man that had to have been the coach, a younger man who was probably an assistant coach, and three men in suits.

“Who are they?” Belle whispered, stepping in time with Raphael’s cane.

“One’s the owner, one’s the team manager, and the other is a lawyer, I’d imagine.”

“Do they always go to practices?”

“Not always, and probably not particularly often, but they do when someone like me calls and asks for an appointment.”

“What is it that you’re supposed do, again?” she asked. ‘Psychic detective’ wasn’t exactly a job title that would make people bend to his every whim.

“I’m in real estate.”

“Right.”

They got closer, and one of the men in suits looked up. “Ah, Mr. Gold, you made it.”

“Yes, my apologies for the delay. We got caught up in a bit of traffic.”

“I thought you were coming alone.” He eyed Belle with interest, and she bit her lip because it was the only response she could think of. She was supposed to be a gold digger, not someone actively interested in Raphael—right?

“My fiancée wanted to meet the team. She does so enjoy athletics.”

 “Well, she’s come to the right place.” The man held his hand out, and Belle could see that his nails had been recently manicured as she shook it. “Michael White, team manager.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. White. Claire Fields,” she said, speaking low so that her Aussie accent might be a little bit less noticeable.

“Are you a big Bruins fan?”

“Absolutely,” Belle said, sliding her hand out of his. “I’ve always wanted to meet Abramson.”

She felt Raphael tense beside her, and when she glanced at him, his jaw was pulsing like he was clutching it against laughter. She dug her nails into his arm.

“I can arrange that. Hey, McCormick!”

The assistant coach, who couldn’t have been older than Belle, jogged over in his black and gold windbreaker. She made sure to give him a disdainful look, and felt immediately guilty when he frowned.

“Yeah?”

“Can you escort Miss Fields over to the team while the men talk?”

Belle clenched her jaw, and Raphael hooked his cane over his elbow so that he could rest a hand over hers, and she breathed a little bit. He would defend her.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. McCormick, she’d love that,” he said, lifting her hand off his arm and shooing her. Belle made note to sabotage his bed later.

“Thank you so much,” she growled, back stiff as she followed McCormick out onto the rink.

“All right, Claire—can I call you Claire?—what do you want to see?” McCormick asked in a thick, Boston accent.

“Sure,” she said, reaching into her bra for her cell phone. She needed Clive. “Should I just call you McCormick?”

“You can call me Brian,” he said, pointing to a nametag. “Everyone does.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Brian.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but your man’s freaking me out.”

She pressed her lips together to contain her snicker, penning a quick text to Clive. “He can be overwhelming.”

“How long have you been together?”

They hadn’t discussed this. Belle threw a panicked glance behind her, but Gold was involved in a conversation with the suits. The coach had joined as well. “A year,” she said.

There was a buzz in her hand, and she looked down. _Ask about equipment_ , Clive said.

“He must be rich,” Brian said, wrinkling his nose. Belle tried not to be annoyed by this—Raphael had, after all, intended to make himself look like the sort of man Brian thought he was. This was a good thing.

“One of the richest. Can I see the equipment? And maybe the locker rooms?” She had all but memorized the contents of the bag Kathryn had given her, as well as all the notes she’d taken—maybe if she could get a look around, she’d see something that would help.

“You want to see the locker room?”

Belle might not have been able to be a convincing hockey fan, but she was fairly certain that she could be a convincing seductress. “Yes, please, Brian.” She bit her lip, reaching up to touch the ends of her hair, and Brian swallowed.

“Right, yeah, let’s go.”

He led her through the stadium to a back area, and she could smell the locker room before she could see it. Trying not to gag, she rubbed her shawl on her chest, hoping to transfer some of her perfume, and then pressed it over her nose.

“Real man smell, huh?” Brian asked.

“Obviously, you’ve never dated a man, if that’s what you think they should smell like,” Belle said, coughing into the fabric.

“You don’t like your men to smell like sports?”

She hated when Clive tried to get into bed after a run without showering. Of course, Clive never smelled quite this bad, but it was the best comparison she had. “No, I prefer soap, actually.”

He opened the door to the locker room, and she tried not to flinch away. The smell here was so bad that her nose might have gone numb, and she pressed the shawl closer. She needed to be in here while the players were, so that she could see into their lockers, but it looked like she was going to have to convince Brian to open them for her.

“This is amazing,” she choked, looking around with watery eyes. “I feel really immersed in the hockey life now.”

Brian looked at her like she was speaking gibberish, which meant that it was time to hike up her skirt and start talking sexy nonsense. She leaned forward for maximum leg visibility, and took a deep breath through her shawl before letting it drop.

“So, Brian, can you tell me about everyone?” She laid her fingers on his shoulder as though she were about to start caressing him, and he looked like he might hyperventilate. As the assistant coach, he probably did not see as much female attention as anyone else in the building. She felt guilty for thinking that this might give her a big advantage, but also there was attempted murder to think about.

“Sure. What do you want to know? Averages?”

“Oh, yes, I love averages.” Averages of what? Was hockey like baseball?

While Brian talked at length about goals and assists, Belle looked around. Jim’s locker was easy to spot, because it was hung with dried sage—though it wasn’t the only one that looked like it belonged to a mad man. Plenty of them were hung with rabbit’s feet, and some even had strange markings. It seemed the team as a whole was as superstitious as Jim.

“Brian.” She squeezed his shoulder, letting one finger slip nearer his collar so that she was touching skin. “What are all the markings on everyone’s locker?”

“Ugh.” He rolled his eyes, striding over to one with a cross etched on it. “It’s bullshit is what it is. The whole team’s crazy, and Coach just supports it because he thinks it helps them win.” He shook his head. “One time, he made me leave a practice because Collier wouldn’t stop bitching about there being thirteen of us.”

“That seems a little harsh,” Belle said, wiggling so that her skirt would ride up and show more of her thigh. “I don’t know, though—some of these seem a little hostile.” She inched up behind him, making sure that her chest brushed his back whenever he moved. “Are you sure it’s safe in here?”

“Oh, yeah, totally safe. They’re all harmless.” He wobbled around to face her, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I swear.”

“I’m not so sure.” She sidled over to him, sliding around his arm. Was she sexually harassing him? If the way his gaze strayed to her top and his feet strayed toward her was any indication, it was a no.

“I can just—I can show you what’s inside, if that’ll help.”

“Could you?” She bit her lip. “It would put my mind at ease.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He nodded, patting her on the hand like he wasn’t sure whether to squeeze it or not.

“Oh, Brian,” she sighed, grasping his fingers in hers. “Thank you.”

* * *

She almost ran into Raphael when they snuck around the back of the stadium to debrief about their findings. Clutched in her hand was Brian McCormick’s phone number, and she waved it in his face.

“I have so much to tell you,” she said.

“Good, because I have nothing to tell you. Those men are useless, and two of them are cheating on their wives.” He shuddered.

“Well, I’m cheating on you with Brian,” she said, showing him the phone number. “He gave it to me in case I had any questions, but he clearly wanted those questions to involve inviting him out for sex.”

“You should,” Gold said, plucking the number out of her hand and tucking it into his shirt pocket. “What did you find out?”

“I’m not going to invite him out for sex, I’m engaged.”

Gold made a noise that Belle chose to see as in support of her statement. “What did you find out?”

“Okay. So, I found out that the entire team is also insane, but Jim is probably the most insane. Every time someone had sage in his locker, Brian told me that it was Jim’s fault. To be quite honest, I don’t think Brian is Jim’s biggest fan.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Gold said, nodding. “You got into their lockers?”

“Of course.” She’d have tossed her hair were it not in a chignon. “Anyway, then I found a set of pliers and a hammer in locker 34.”

“Do you know whose locker that is?”

She shook her head. “But, Brian thinks it’s one of the younger players, because some of them do weirder things than the older players.”

“You’ll have to find out whose it is. That’s our biggest lead so far.”

“You couldn’t find out anything from the men?”

He shook his head. “Nothing of any use, just that they’re all the same stereotypical managerial type. Oh, but I did learn that a group of executives from sports agencies are coming in tomorrow.”

“Does that mean anything to us?”

“Of course. As someone doing extensive research about where I want to lay my patronage, I’ll need to meet with everyone who has any contact with the team—make sure there are no bad eggs, as it were.”

“So you’re playing a rich man who’s extremely annoying?”

He gave her a sour look, holding his arm out for her to take. “If that’s how you want to put it. Ask Brian out on a date.”

“What?” She folded her arms. “No, I refuse. I am not going to actually cheat on my fiancé, Raphael, and there’s no way that Brian will think I just want to spend time with him. He’ll, you know, expect me to expect something.”

“Belle, we need to know whose locker that—oh, hold on.” He yanked his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. “Yes?”

He was quiet, brow furrowed while he listened to the other end, and Belle watched his face, trying to puzzle out what it was he was hearing. Was it a personal call? Was it Jim?

“Thank you.” He hung up. “That was the lab. They’ve found a fingerprint on the shard from the blown light bulb, but whoever’s it is isn’t in their system. We need to find out whose locker that is.” 

Belle sighed. “Fine. I’ll see if I can get Brian to look for me.”

Gold laughed, and the sound sent chills up Belle’s neck. “That will take too long. You’ll have to break in.”

Belle froze, eyebrows drawn into a V. “What?”

“You’ll have to break in.”

“What do you mean ‘ _you_ ’ will have to break in? Don’t you mean ‘we?’”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Belle. I can’t break in.” He gestured to his cane. “It’ll take too long and be too difficult. I’ll keep lookout. You break in.”

“In this dress?”

“Of course not. I’ve got a spare custodian’s uniform in my car.”

Of course he did.

* * *

Belle was glad for the unflattering shape and size of the uniform she was now wearing, considering it hid her most identifiable features. Without her chignon, her hair was bent in strange places, so she mussed it up to give her the appearance of a lion, and to give her somewhere easy to hide her phone while she talked to Raphael.

“All right. The coach’s office is where the locker information should be, unless you just want to break into the locker itself and find out who he is.”

“I don’t know the combination,” she hissed into the phone, peering around every corner.

Gold huffed, the static from the noise making her cringe. “I don’t need you to remind me that you’re hopeless. If I’d been there, we’d have the combinations.”

“Well, I was a little busy batting my eyelashes and pretending to be an unfaithful gold-digging nymphomaniac.”

“Learn to multitask.”

Belle said nothing, gritting her teeth together instead. The offices were right next to the locker room, and all the doors were locked—of course. She sighed. “Okay, what do I do now?”

“Pick it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pick the lock. Use a hairpin.”

She had no idea how to pick a lock using a hairpin, but she could try. From reading, she knew a little bit about locks, like there were various pins that needed to be pushed in various ways, but that didn’t mean that she, with just a hairpin, could figure out what to do.

“Raphael, I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said when a minute of wiggling it around in the knob yielded nothing but a bent pin.

“Go around and climb in through the window.”

Belle was silent. She must have misheard him. “What?”

“I’m standing round the back, the window’s big enough. Come outside and climb through the window. I’m going to go distract the security guard,” he said, before cutting the connection.

There were many things that Belle had been forced to go along with since she’d been awakened at 5:20 that morning, but this might have been the worst. Why couldn’t they just be normal detectives and get a warrant or something?

She was not about to climb through a window, no matter what Raphael said, which meant that she was going to need a key. Janitors had keys to everything, but she was not a real janitor, and Raphael hadn’t thought to nick anything other than the uniform—or, if he had thought of it, he hadn’t succeeded. She needed to find an actual janitor, and casually steal their keys.

 Or maybe it would be better to change back into her Claire disguise, find someone, and flirt it out of them. This confusion had not been part of the job description.

Her phone buzzed, telling her she had a new text. It was from Raphael.

_Locker 34’s combination is 7, 22, 18_.

She stared at her screen. Why did he even bother sending her to do these things if he was just going to figure it out himself? Another text with instructions came through, and in her irritation, Belle could only find the motivation to send him a series of question marks.

_The security office has the locker records tacked to a bulletin board. Would be unprofessional, except it seems that the names are somewhere else, so at least someone trying to break in would have to go it blind._

At least he hadn’t gone in there with the intention of ruining her careful disguise. She sent him a quick thank you, even though now she would be forced to ‘go it blind’ as well, and then stuck her phone in her khaki pocket.

No one was in the locker room, so she locked the door behind her and set to work. Locker 34 was on the top row, and if the lockers had been smaller, she wouldn’t have been able to reach it. Since it was only a double-row, the lock was at face-level for her, and she had it open in no time. The pliers and hammer were still there, which meant that no one suspected the need to remove it, and she snapped a quick picture of the contents of the locker just in case.

Being careful to keep everything in its place, she lifted up shirts, towels, and water bottles to find anything with a name or a number on it. Near the back was a pile of scrap paper, and each one she picked up had a woman’s name and a phone number. Rolling her eyes, Belle pulled out her phone and called Raphael.

“You’re lucky the security guard went to the bathroom. What do you need?”

“Which player has a reputation for being a womanizer?”

He snorted. “Which one doesn’t?”

“That doesn’t help, Raphael. I found a pile of phone numbers.”

“Read me the names.”

With a sigh, Belle plucked a few off the top. “Shannon, Melinda, Jennifer, Rachel, Blonde Rachel.”

“Nope, got nothing.”

“Okay, well, what can we do?”

“Sounds like it’s time to pay Brian a visit.”

“ _No_. I’m going to figure this out.” She hung up, then stood on her toes to get a better view of the locker. There had to be something in here—an old receipt, a nametag, a jersey. Her hand closed around a sweatband first, and she hissed in triumph when she felt embroidery on the inside. Pulling it out revealed it to be sweat-stained to the point of discoloration, but she chose to ignore it. Soap existed. She could wash her hands.

Pulling out her phone, she sent off _Darren Alvarez_ , and then made a beeline for the nearest bathroom.

* * *

“This should be the easiest thing we’ve done all day,” Raphael said, turning the car off. “The only difficulty will be making sure that Brian doesn’t feel neglected when you come onto Darren, because we still need him.”

Belle nodded, smoothing out her lace dress. She was wary about wearing her favorite one in her new collection to a bar full of drunk athletes, but the look on Raphael’s face when she’d put it on had banished most of her doubts. Clive rarely looked at her like that anymore—of course, she never wore dresses like this.

“You need something with his fingerprints on it, anything, even if that thing has to be your décolletage.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She pursed her lips. There was no way that any hockey player was going to be touching her _décolletage_. “Right, so I get his fingerprints, leave him, and then go flirt with Brian to make sure he doesn’t hate me?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, I have to call Clive.”

“What?” He looked at her like she’d just suggested they play tag. “Whatever for?”

“I need to warn him that things may get a little intimate with a hockey player.”

When she called, though, and asked him if he minded, he squealed like a fan girl—loud enough that she had to hold the phone away from her ear.

“What the hell was that?” Raphael muttered, and Belle ignored him.

“Clive?”

“Don’t wash your lips,” Clive said.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“If you kiss a Bruin, don’t wash your lips.”

“Why not? Did you want to kiss a Bruin?”

Clive was silent. “Just don’t wash your lips, okay?”

“I’m going to wash my lips.”

“God damn it, Belle.”

“Goodbye, Clive.” She hung the phone up, shaking her head. “All right. I’m ready. Are we walking in together?”

“Yes, and then we’ll split up. I’ll go eye up some young ladies, you go eye up some young men, and then we’ll make eyes at each other and come out to the car where everyone will presume we’re going at it like rabbits.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

They walked in together, with Belle’s hand on his arm, and it was not as loud as she was expecting. It was crowded, to be sure, but it was an organized chaos. A group of men was playing darts, another group was watching television, and the rest were milling around in clusters. There were few women, and they all seemed to be hanging around men like groupies.

“Is everyone in here an athlete?” she asked, inching closer to Raphael.

“Everyone but us, I’d imagine.”

The floor was sticky and dangerous for her in her petal-pink stilettos, but Raphael’s cane was sturdy enough for the both of them, helping to guide them through to the bar.

“What would you like, pet?” He curled a hand around her arm, raising his voice so that anyone around them could hear.

“We’ve got a special on Sam Adams tonight. A pitcher for nine bucks,” the bartender offered.  

Raphael’s lip curled, and Belle followed suit. “I’m not interested in your beer specials. I see you have a fully stocked bar. I’ll take your best scotch, neat, and she will have a sex on the beach.” He looked at her like he was ready to eat her alive, and Belle had not realized he was that good at acting, or that anything he did could make her knees wobble.

“Right. Coming up.”

While the bartender made their drinks, Raphael put his lips by her ear. “Drink slowly. Neither of us should get drunk.”

“Right.”

When their drinks arrived, Belle’s was mostly vodka, and she almost choked on it. It was a terrible idea to get mixed drinks in a sports bar—but then, she’d have been just as happy with the Sam Adams, so this was all Raphael’s fault, and if she got drunk, she’d be happy to tell him so.

“I’m going over to the coach,” he said, sipping at his scotch. “You know what to do. Also, I am sorry for what I’m about to do next.”

“What?”

His hand came to tap her on the backside, and she just barely managed to turn her surprised jump into something that might have been a little sexy. Based on the dead-eyed look Raphael gave her, she had not succeeded.

“Get moving.”

 She nodded, then headed out into the bar. Hiding amidst a cluster of people, she tipped half of her drink into a garbage can, and then  tried to put a little wobble in her steps. It might help her to be tipsy.

“Hey,” she said, finding Brian at a high table. He was crowded by several half-full beers, but was the only person standing there. Slumped forward onto the table, he was watching a group of men play darts as though he wished they’d each get stabbed in the eye.

“Claire!” He fumbled around, almost knocking over his own beer. “How are—why are you at this bar?”

She shrugged, leaning onto the table next to him. “Wanted to get a real feel for the scene, yeah?”

“Right. Cool. Can I buy you—oh, you’ve got one. Right.” He ran a hand through his hair, and it stuck up on the sides.

“So who are you rooting for?” She leaned closer to him, watching all of the athletes. Maybe if she took a picture, Clive could tell her which was which.

“I wish they could all lose.”

She laughed, raising her phone and snapping a picture. Brian gave her a funny look, taking a sip of his beer, but she just smiled, sending it off to Clive as fast as she could.

“Doesn’t Mr. Gold mind you hanging over all the athletes?”

She snickered, trying to make it look like she was drinking more than she was. “As long as I soothe his ego after, he doesn’t mind anything.”

“Ew.” Brian shuddered. “I mean, sorry, if you like that kind of thing, but—ew.”

There were worse people out there to pretend to be sleeping with than Raphael, but Belle wasn’t about to defend him. “There are perks,” she said instead, flicking one of her diamond earrings. When her phone buzzed, she bit her lip. “Excuse me for just a second. I have some urgent business to attend to.”

How did one pretend to sext? Belle pushed her cleavage out and crossed her legs, but still thought she just looked out of her element. Luckily for her, though, Clive’s text came back identifying Darren Alvarez as the bald man who was neither winning nor losing darts.

“Is that—Mr. Gold?”

She looked over at Brian and winked. He flushed magenta, but leaned closer to her. This was good—if she continued to have him eating out of the palm of her hand, they’d never need to snoop again.

“Brian,” she said, slapping her now-empty drink on the table. “You look precious tonight.” She leaned over and traced a finger along his sideburn, and he looked like he could melt.

“Y—uh, what?”

“Do you mind if we get a picture together?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, absolutely.” His arm was around her so fast, it might have been hovering behind her. She laughed, extracting herself.

“Hang on, I need to find someone to take it.”

Darren Alvarez was sitting and drinking his beer while someone else took his turn, and she sidled over to him. The dress was doing its job, because his attention was arrested even before she made it over to him.

“Can I help you?” he asked, making her want to cringe away from his gaze as it ran up her exposed legs.

“Yeah, could you take a picture for me?” She handed over her phone, already pulled up to the camera.

“Sure. Can I buy you a drink after?”

“Sure.” She smiled, biting her lip, then swished her way back to Brian. She would suffer through his x-ray gaze for the sake of stopping future murders.

Once the picture was taken, Darren came over to bring her phone back, and Belle excused herself to go to the bathroom. She found Raphael at a table chatting with the coach, and slipped her arms around him from behind.

“Baby,” she said, dropping her phone into his jacket pocket. “I’ve got a present for you. Come out to the car.”

His hand came to rest on her arm, and she wished she could see his face. “I’ll be right there, treasure. Don’t start without me.”

She pressed her lips to his ear, and hissed, “Don’t touch the phone.”

“I can’t wait.”

Raphael met her at the car a minute later, gesturing to the backseat. Once they were both in, he pulled her into his lap, settling her on top of him.

“Really?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Come on. We’ve raised plenty of interest. We need to be authentic. If you could throw your head back and make an O face soon, that would be ideal.”

“Ugh.” She shook her head, wriggling her hips so that his knee wasn’t where it shouldn’t be. “Okay, so I got a whole bunch of Darren’s fingerprints on my phone. We should take it to the lab right now so that I can use it again.”

“Brilliant.” He looked down at his pocket in wonder. “What did you do, drop it?”

“Asked him to take a picture.”

“I’m surprised he let you use your own phone. I saw several men looking like they wanted to peel that dress off of you.”

She bit her lip and looked down, flushed. “Well, he was almost a gentleman. I’m afraid I’ve just stood him and Brian up, though. Maybe I should text—”

“You can’t text. In about three minutes, you’re going to fake an orgasm, and then we’re heading straight for the police station.”

“Fine. Here.” She grabbed his hand and slapped it to her breast, ignoring the surprised chicken noise that he made. Closing her eyes, she bit her lip and threw her head back, rolling her hips.

“You’re good at this,” he said, hand clamped around her breast like it was a steering wheel.

“I have a lot of practice.”

“Oh god.” He closed his eyes, looking pained, and Belle stopped, sinking down.

“What’s wrong?”

He opened one eye, and his look made her want to shrink. “Someone’s watching. Get back to your theatrics.”

“Is that really what you look like during sex?” she asked, drawing back up.

“I don’t know. It’s been awhile.”

“Well, now’s the perfect time to perfect your O face. Ready?”

“Ready.”

She threw her head back and opened her mouth like she was crying out, and Raphael’s hands came up to wrap around her hips, and then they were collapsing against each other as though they’d just run a mile.

Belle started laughing first, ducking her head so that she could bury her face in his neck, and then his chest rumbled with his own laughter.

“Are you glad you came?” he asked, and it felt like his voice was dripping off his lips onto her ear.

“Yeah.” She peeked up from his neck, but didn’t twist around to meet his eyes. “Yeah, I am.”


End file.
